Walking down the Junction Road Park, I am on my way home. The sun slowly disappears from the sky, as I leave the school, which silently stands towering on the hill. A large piece of soft and green carpet, with so many white and yellow daisies, scattering beside the road and the running track. Floriography of daisy: simple, gentleness and innocence. Melting whiteness. Powerless yellow. I think I am a daisy. We are daisies. Waiting for the one who would stop and admire. How many times have I walked down the Junction Road Park? How many steps have athletes left on the running track? Without even noticing, hours and days quietly fade away with the steps. Every single day is a cycle. Daisies close over its yellow center as darkness approaches, and awake when the light comes. Busily chasing the days. Wondering. But where should I go? And where do the people go? Over the bridge of the school, people stop and take out their smart phones, hoping to catch the moment of sunset. Like the innocent children. Like the little daisies. The end of the day. The daisy's eye. Silently hiding behind the hill. Silently blossoming themselves beside the walk.